


i'll be your man if you've got love to get done

by smallredboy



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Banter, Communication, Crowley's Century-Long Nap (Good Omens), Established Relationship, Historical, Jealousy, Kissing, M/M, Open Relationships, Prostitution, early 20th century
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2019-05-30
Packaged: 2020-03-29 13:32:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19020955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallredboy/pseuds/smallredboy
Summary: One of Aziraphale'sclientswreaks havoc on a recently-awakened Crowley.





	i'll be your man if you've got love to get done

**Author's Note:**

> michael sheen called aziraphale the world's oldest rentboy and the idea of bringing that concept to life wouldn't leave me alone so here we are.
> 
> enjoy!

The streets are unusually quiet as Aziraphale and Crowley make their way down them. Aziraphale cheerfully greets people he knows in between talking to Crowley about what went down while he slept and slept and slept. It’s no wonder so much has happened in a century, but as he talks about Napoleon’s exploits Crowley looks dismayed that he wasn’t there to see it first-hand.

“Well, that's what happens when you get the whim to sleep for an entire century, dear,” says Aziraphale, eyes twinkling as he fixes his coat and walks through the streets with confidence unlike him.

“I should’ve slept through most of the fourteenth century,” he grumbles as he follows him. “Nothing happened in that one.”

“I found the complete lack of activity rather fascinating,” Aziraphale says with a huff before waving his hand to another stranger. “I mean, it was lethargic and boring, yes I can give you that, my love— but it was so much better to just lounge around than have to be involved in war after war, no?”   


He rolls his eyes. “You and your love for comfort. Wars are great.”   
  
“My, the horsewoman is really taking an effect on you—”   
  
“I haven’t even met her,” he cuts him off.

He laughs a little and there’s suddenly a man walking up to him. He’s fiddling with his hands and looking around like there’s any chance he will be seen around Aziraphale, but he’s still somehow strutting along with ego and confidence only Crowley could match. Aziraphale hasn’t seen this man in years but oh, he’s good at faces, and he falls into the realization that he has not told Crowley about the inadequate hobby of sorts he took while he slept—

“Mr. Francis,” the man says, looking up at him— he’s rather short, but he looks like they should be the same height, perhaps because he isn’t plump like Aziraphale. Slender, all bones, and narrow hips. “It is you, isn’t it?”   
  
Crowley blinks several times. “Francis?” he hisses out, his snakish way nearly slipping out, “Who—?”   
  
“Excuse me,” says Aziraphale with an ice cold tone of ‘I promise I’ll explain later’ and turns to the man. He smiles a little. “Yes. Uh…” He pauses for a second. “Edmund, wasn’t it?”   
  
“Yes, yes. I didn’t think I’d see you again.” He looks at Crowley for a second and a small smile sneaks into his thin face. “You seem to have settled down, too. You’re no longer on the job?”   
  
“Ah yes, I’m afraid not,” he replies, giving him a nod. “I have, in fact, settled down. I hope you have, too?”   
  
Edmund laughs humorlessly and shakes his head a little. “Oh, I’m afraid not, angel face, dear. Got pushed towards marriage with one of those _ladies_ ,” he says the word ladies with barely hidden contempt like it’s dirty and rotten, “I don’t think she even has a clue of my…” He pauses. “Proclivities.”   


Aziraphale’s expression softens. “I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Edmund, dear. I hope—”   
  
“Aziraphale, angel,” Crowley says, suddenly grabbing his arm and pulling him away from the man. “Let’sss get out of here.” His eyes are dripping with amber venom, jealousy obvious all over his face. Aziraphale pretends to have given up before pulling away from Crowley forcefully, hissing at him.

“Dear,” he breathes. “I promise I will explain in a second. Let me talk to Edmund now, shall you?”   
  
“No—”   
  
“Dear. Stop being jealous.”   
  
“No! You were out there _sssleeping_ —”   
  
“While you slept!” he exclaims. “Seems fair enough to me, doesn’t it? Let me talk to him. I will tell you all the details when I am allowed to give a proper farewell.”   


Crowley lets out a disgruntled sigh and his forked tongue slips right out of his mouth before he turns away and starts walking away from the scene. 

Aziraphale sighs, defeated, and walks back to Edmund, who is waiting patiently by him, his eyes curious and as bright as he remembers them— he wasn’t as slender back then, if memory recalls well, though.

“I apologize,” he says, bowing his head a little as soon as he’s in Edmund’s earshot once again.

“Oh, it’s no problem,” he says, “A bit of a jealous lover, isn’t he? Does he know about your past exploits?”   


He laughs. “Oh, he’ll know soon, alright. He will get over it.”

“Will he, though?” There’s a pause that seems to stretch on for quite some time. “He could easily leave you.”   
  
“Oh no,” says Aziraphale, chuckling a bit. “I promise you, he won’t. We are very in love, indeed. He will get over his qualms about it.”

“Well, be sure to update me,” he tells him, giving him a squeeze on the arm, gentle against his soft skin. “My address remains the same.”   
  
He has all the addresses of those who hired him somewhere, someplace. He makes a mental note to look for it, knowing he will promptly forget it amongst other things he has to do. 

“Farewell, Edmund,” he tells him, leaning in to give him a chaste kiss on the cheek. It’s almost funny, how uncomfortable that contact is, considering just how many things far more than that they’ve done together.

“Farewell, Francis,” he says, giving a bow before turning. “I did hear him say what I assume to be your real name,” he notes, “but I know it wasn’t my place to hear that.”

He smiles. “Thank you. Farewell.”   


As soon as Edmund starts to leave into the opposite direction, Aziraphale rushes forward until he’s by Crowley, who is still very grumpy and still sick with jealousy, his lips tightly pursed together and his eyes ablaze, almost as fiery as his hair.

“Dear.” No response. “Dear, please, listen to me, I have a great explanation, you’re gonna love it.” Silence. “ _ Anthony _ .”   


Crowley stops walking and lets out a sigh before turning back to Aziraphale, his eyes regaining their composure second by second until they’re the normal amber yellow of always. It makes him relax a little— he prefers for his demon to be calm. An angry demon isn’t ever good for anyone. 

“So,” he starts. “You have heard of escorts, right?”

“I did procure some before we started seeing each other,” Crowley says, voice still a little low for him, “And I don’t like the sound of this. Was Edmund a guy you paid to do your—”   
  
Aziraphale nearly chokes on his laughter, but he tries his best to keep quiet. “Crowley, my dear,” he starts, looking at him with a wide grin, “ _ I _ was the escort.”

Crowley stays silent for several seconds, eyes wide in his stupor as he tries to come to terms with the fact his dear Aziraphale was an escort while he slept. It’s not like he thinks he’s in any form innocent, no— it is just using these kinds of things for money that must surprise him.

“You…” He clears his throat. “You were the escort?”   
  
“Yes,” he says as he starts walking again, Crowley soon following his lead. “Considering we have always said our relationship to not be closed-off— that we could always search for the company in other people—”   
  
“Yes, but we never actually did it,” he interrupts.

“Because neither of us was asleep for a hundred years,” he rebuffs. “But— that was the agreement. I wasn’t exactly going to wake you up to ask if you were okay with it, I assumed you were— I have known you for six thousand years, dear—”   
  
“I’m just having a hard time wrapping my head around it,” he says. “I assume it was all men, yes?”   
  
“Oh yeah,” he nods. “Even if a lady paid me in thousands of guineas I would not even consider it.”

Crowley laughs at that and pulls him into a kiss. “I know, dear.” He pauses for a second. “I’m, ah, sorry I got angry. I know our relationship isn’t closed in the least, but you know…”

Aziraphale shakes his head and kisses him gently. “It’s okay, I know. But it was fun, you know?”   
  
“Was it?” He raises a brow.

“Oh, trust me, having sex for money is scandalous, but still—”

“It is still great? Isn’t it a sin, my dear?”   
  
He stays silent for a few seconds, a small smile making its way onto his lips before he places his hand on Crowley’s shoulder and kisses him ever so slowly. “I think that if I cared about sin I wouldn’t love you, dear,” he tells him.

Crowley blushes hard, and he nods. “That’s fair.”

He smiles and keeps walking. “So, let me tell you about some of my… strangest customers, yes?”

His eyes light up and he nods, following him and kissing him from time to time as night wraps around them tight, keeps them awake and keeps them safe from any onlooker. “Do tell, dear.”   
  
“Well, one of them— he was a very strange man. In his fifties, maybe— he loved women’s undergarments, but still sought my companionship.”

Crowley’s brows furrow. “Aziraphale, tell me you didn’t—”   
  
“Of course I did,” he says with a wicked smile. “Think about how much he paid me.”   
  
“We’re not in a tight economic spot,” he shoots back. “You were just doing it for the Hell of it.”

He laughs and pulls him into another kiss, chest-to-chest, his embrace tight and his eyes glinting with playfulness. Crowley looks more enamored than ever before, surely, with this new facet of Aziraphale, playful and confident— “Well, who’s to say, dear?” He kisses him again before pulling away. 

“His fixation with those garments wasn’t the weirdest thing by far, though. He was obsessed with ah, let’s say…”   


Crowley listens to him, and Aziraphale speaks, and they spent the rest of the night that way, laughing and kissing.


End file.
